Of Patience & Monuments
by RIPStitches
Summary: On a summer's day before the Jellicle Ball, Victoria is nervous about the mating dance and discusses it with her best friend Mistoffelees. Drabbly oneshot. Unrequited slashyness. Couldn't think of a title.


'I do like him' she says dreamily, running a blade of lush summer grass through her alabaster paws. 'I mean, he is very handsome, and I'm so honoured to be chosen, and the others will be so jealous...but what if I don't remember the dance properly?'

_I know the dance. Too well. _

'What if I get it wrong, or do something stupid? What if everyone laughs at me?'

_I wouldn't care who was laughing. I wouldn't hear them; their voices would be drowned in the tumult of my heartbeat._

'I know...I know it'll be alright, really,' she says, gazing up into the arching blue sky with a slight smile. 'But oh, Misto -' She rolls onto her front and regards me earnestly through misty blue eyes. 'I do wish it were you.'

I grin uneasily, and give her a halfhearted shove. 'Wouldn't be able to lift you, I 'spect.' Then, seeing her face fall, I add 'But – me too.'

She smiles, and nudges me back. And I want to scream and drag my claws down my face and bury myself in the earth and tear my chest open, anything to make it _stop_, because I wish it were me too. Not in the way she means. I could lift her. I don't want to. I want to be in her place, to see him look at me the way he looks at her, head to one side and dark eyes burning through me, I want to feel my breath catch in my throat as he sidesteps towards me; I want the sudden thrill of fear. Victoria is talking again, but my mind is rushing away from her, out of control: I'm seeing him moving towards me, long muscled legs taking quick measured strides, I'm thinking of the way his shoulders move, of the curve of his neck and back, the unexpected slenderness in arms that I know could lift me effortlessly, catch me up like a raven's feather in an autumn breeze. I'm imagining him running his strong hands down my back, long fingers trailing along the groove of my spine, his breath at my neck, the heady scent of him and oh Everlasting I'm shaking, I've got to stop, and Victoria's looking at me with puzzlement on her exquisite face and asking am I alright? And I breathe deeply and tell her yes, I am, and give her my best smile, because I can never tell her that even though she's my best friend in the world and I never, ever want to lose her, a part of me wants to tear her apart, rip her to shreds from jealousy.

We lie there for a little longer, talking sometimes – she in a muted, anxious bliss of anticipation, I monosyllabic and distracted, trying to force myself not to imagine, not to hope. I think of a play I once saw, from high in the beams of a darkened theatre; of Viola, who never told her love, sitting like Patience on her monument. But she did tell, I think, bitterly; she fell off her pedestal and into the arms of her Duke. I am not patient; I will have no monument; and my Duke...

He is here, suddenly, hesitant in the shadows. Mutely, I poke Victoria and gesture towards him and she turns, her face a mixture of pleasure and apprehension, and beckons him over. He approaches somewhat awkwardly, loose-limbed and wary, and I realise he might actually be shy, a little nervous...of me, perhaps? My stomach lurches and my chest feels about to burst; something in his tantalising vulnerability has taken my breath, and nothing is left of me but wordless craving.

But his eyes are only on her, and she stands up as he reaches us, touches his paw with a quick gesture.

'I was thinking' he says in his low, quiet voice 'maybe you'd like to practise...before...you know...'

She flushes a delicate pink, not meeting his eyes.

'Yes' she says, stumbling over her words a little. 'Yes, I think that would be...I mean, it's a good...um...' She glances up at him and nods, embarrassed, and he laughs back down, understanding, and she blushes an even deeper shade of pink and looks to me, almost as if asking for permission. I nod and smile encouragingly, even though every look that passes between them feels like a battering ram to the chest.

She opens her mouth as if to say something, but I just smile and motion for her to go. She nods gratefully and he tilts his head to me, polite and distant as always, and they turn and walk away side by side, carefully not brushing hands in the way people do when touching is all they are thinking of. I watch them out of sight and then, with a small, desperate moan, curl up and wish for oblivion. A small part of me is genuinely happy for them; I hadn't realised there was so much between them, hadn't pictured a future, but now...

I stare at the ground, listlessly, and contemplate a life of watching them together. Their kittens will be beautiful. Yes, they will be alright, I think.

I wish I could say the same for me.

**A/N - Ok, firstly sorry for the strange and pretentious title - that Twelfth Night reference was just a last minute thing I shoved in, and I really couldn't think of a title, so that's just what it ended up as. If anyone has any better ideas, please suggest 'em, I'll gladly change it if anyone thinks of anything better. Other than that - I know this is quite similar to Waiting, except more crappily written and stuffs, and I know this is a really odd pairing - it'd never occurred to me until the idea of this scenario just jumped into my head and I thought I'd write it down. I quite like the image of Misto in Vicky's place during the dance. It'd look good. (Grins pervertedly)  
**

**But generally I'm not too pleased with this, it was all written in the early hours of the morning while listening to the Prodigy quite loudly, heh. But it wouldn't leave me alone so...meh. Reviews are loved and appreciated, I always get stupidly excited about them, so if you've got time...**

**Thanks for reading.**


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